Um...remember me?

How is is possible that I haven't written an entry in this blog in over a year. When I first started this journey, keeping track of my thoughts and sharing my story was so important, and it fell by the wayside...like so many other things in my life. There's that sticktuitiveness problem again. It's not likely that I can pick up where I left off, but after reading all of the posts I wrote leading up to last January and reflecting on the past 15 months, I feel compelled to try.

So much of what I have written in this blog has been about Dad and his illness and how I was feeling about it and reacting to it.

Dad is now gone.

After reading previous posts, this seems even more unbelievable.

Back to 2010...

Dad bounced back quite well for the summer. He gained weight and improved his attitude dramatically. He had his car in every show as long as it wasn't pouring rain. We went whale watching in St. Andrews. We worked in the yard. We lived.

In October, we learned that the cancer was back, this time in his bones. It was a horrible shock. He had been having some pain in his hips and legs since July, but we hoped it was just arthritis.

After the new diagnosis, things went down hill pretty quickly. Around Thanksgiving, there were days when he didn't even get out of bed. He was in excruciating pain. It was hell for all of us.

One Sunday when I went to Mom and Dad's for dinner, Dad was in bed so I went to lay with him and hold his hand. He asked me what it was all worth...why was he still alive after all this.

I told him I would take back every second of his suffering if I could...bear it all myself. But since I couldn't I explained the many blessings his illness had brought to my life. Since he became ill and went through the hell described in past posts, my life had changed completely. I told him that I had learned compassion, found a new faith, and that I wouldn't want to trade the moments we shared. In the days and nights I spent with him in SICU after his surgery, we bonded more and learned more about each other than we had in the previous 40 years. We had become closer than I every imagined possible. That was what it was all worth and why he was still alive. I know it didn't stop his pain, but I prayed it brought peace to his heart.

Soon after, Dad had some radiation and got his pain medication in order so that his pain was managed to some degree. By Christmas, he was a new man. Eating well, getting out of the house and feeling, I think, as well as could be expected under the circumstances. We went to mass on Christmas eve and ate our lobster rolls when we came home.

Within days, Dad contracted a cold. That turned into some kind of flu. He went on antibiotics and had some sort of a reaction. Then he developed a cough and started losing weight. By February we feared he had pneumonia and he was getting very weak. By March he was rarely leaving the couch.

On Wednesday, March 9, Mom took Dad to the hospital because he was having trouble breathing. He was prescribed something to treat pneumonia and sent home.

On Friday, March 11, he seemed much better and stronger early in the evening. We watched "How to Train Your Dragon" and really enjoyed it. Dad hardly coughed, and I made him some toast. When the movie was over, Dad went to the kitchen for his bedtime pills. By the time he got into the chair, he was so out of breath he started to panic. Hyperventilated and panicked until I feared it was the end. After several minutes, he relaxed and got his breath back. I walked him to the bathroom, and after only a few minutes he was yelling for me to come and get him because he couldn't breathe again. I took him to bed and got him settled after several more minutes of panic and gasping for breath.

On Sunday, March 13, I was working at my desk at home when Mom called to tell me the ambulance was coming for Dad. The Extramural nurse was there and she said Dad's oxygen was dangerously low. I met them at the hospital, and we waited until 10:30 that night before the doctor said Dad would be admitted and Mom and I went home.

I returned to the hospital at 7:30 on the morning of Monday, March 14 and Dad had been moved from emerg to a room. When I found him, he was sleeping.

Over the next few days, there were many tests and a number of incorrect diagnoses. Pneumonia, congestive heart failure, scar tissue...I'm not sure they every figured it out. The bottom line was, there wasn't much hope.

On Wednesday, March 16, Dad was moved to Palliative care. What a nightmare. It was our hope that he was only going there to get his strength and his breath back so we could take him home. I was with him when he was moved. The nurse gave him so ativan (sp?) because he was so afraid to go to Palliative. He asked everyone he saw all day if it was common for people to get stronger and leave Palliative care. They all assured him it was possible. Still, his eyes were wide when we went under the huge "Palliative Care" sign over the door. He was terrified. So was I.

On Thursday, March 17, Dad rested and continued treatment for scar tissue and blood clots in his chest. We waited for word that he could go home. It didn't come.

On Friday, March 18, I decided not to return to my job. I had given my notice for the following Friday anyhow, and I couldn't see the sense in sitting all day at a job I hated waiting to hear news about my poor father. I spent the day in the hospital watching Dad's condition worsen and waiting for the doctor to come and tell us if we could take him home. I had promised to do everything I could to make that happen. I was quite determined. At the end of the day we had a long chat with the doctor and prepared to take Dad home in the morning. We were under no grand illusions, we knew we were taking him home to die, but that was his wish. It was all he could talk about.

Mom and I went home and prepared as best we could to bring him home. I had made arrangements for help with home-care with extra mural nurses, personal care workers, oxygen. We were afraid, but determined to make it work.

Early Saturday, March 19, Mom and I moved things out of the path to the bedroom so the ambulance attendants could wheel Dad to bed on the stretcher. We went to the hospital convinced all would be arranged.

By the time I arrived at his bedside, it was already decided that he could not go home. We were devastated. He had had a terrible night, and even two nurses couldn't settle him down. There was no way Mom and I could handle it. I had to feed Dad his breakfast...two bites of Cream of Wheat and a drink of milk. It was the last thing he ever ate.

He fell asleep and barely woke up at all for the whole day. Late in the morning, Dad's wonderful nurse saw signs that the end was near. She suggested we should contact anyone who would want to see him. After two phone calls, about 20 members of our family arrived. It was a great comfort to have them all so near. Soon after they all arrived, Dad's condition stabilized, and he just slept. The family stayed with us until late in the evening. Mom and I slept in his hospital room. He snored all night.

Early in the morning of Sunday, March 20 we awoke and Dad was very upset. By now he was completely unresponsive, but he was very restless. He started by making little noises in his sleep, but became aggressive and was trying to get out of bed. He would hold us close then push us away, but he couldn't tell us what he wanted.

Within an hour his condition deteriorated badly, and I called his brothers to tell them to come in. His chest had filled with fluid and his breathing was very laboured. Within another hour his breathing had changed to an apnea pattern of one breath every 10 seconds or so. He was peaceful, but dying quickly. We sat with him. I held his hand. Mom and I and Marilyn and Leonard and Mary-Lou talked. At about 9:15am, I noticed his breathing had stopped. I told Mom. I checked for his pulse. It was gone.

I want to record the rest of this story, but I am drained. It is now Friday evening, these past 6 days have been a blur. The pain is all around me, but I can't feel it yet. I'm numb. But I'm aware I'm going to have to feel this before it's all over. The pain will come. I will mourn and I will move on. He gave me this beautiful life, and I plan to live it. Perhaps even more now than before.